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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893777">Keeping the Code</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silnorne/pseuds/Silnorne'>Silnorne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Flights of the Cicada [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drow, Elves, Gen, High Fantasy, Pirates, Sky Pirates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:26:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silnorne/pseuds/Silnorne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost in the churn of an unexpected storm, the crew of the Cicada seek shelter to rest and recover in the remote port of Wolfwater.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Flights of the Cicada [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Keeping the Code</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Any port in a storm, so they say. Whether by sea or by sky a turn in the weather can be the death of even the most experienced sailor. When the waves rise and the breeze becomes a gale, only fools stay in the open currents.</p><p><em>Unless</em>, of course, you’re the favoured of fate; chance; luck; whichever sits more comfortably on the tongue. Aboard the rain-speckled deck of the Cicada, Avelyn watches the blackened clouds gather overhead and wonders if maybe testing fortune when one relies so heavily on it for livelihood might be a little more than foolish. The Cicada is not a small ship – though smaller than many – but even her generous hull is rolling in the throes of the coiling storm. The rain comes in thicker sheets, battering down on the crew as they secure cargo with slicked ropes that easily slip out of the hands like snakes. Orders barked across the planks go astray and are lost to the tempest. The wood groans with the effort of staying aloft.</p><p>Yet they dare not descend to the waters below, where the churn is even greater and the waves rear like cliff faces in the dark. Avelyn makes her way across the deck with steps made sure by long years of sailing and comes up to the bow where Captain Graven Ford stands, white hair braided into whipcords lashing in the wind, amber eyes set on a shrouded horizon.</p><p>“So, what did you do to annoy your cultists?” she calls over the howling. “Aren’t they supposed to give you free passage through storms?” Graven glances sideways at her, white and amber standing out stark against the slate grey of his skin.</p><p>“Not this far from home,” he answers. The Captain’s voice is weighted and cuts through the noise with practiced ease, only pitching slightly louder to be heard. “Even magic has its limits, apparently.” Avelyn grimaces, not for the first time where Graven’s odd associates are concerned. As helpful as a group of so-called servants of the gods can be when they seemingly control the weather, Avelyn can’t help but be a little wary of people who employ such strong magic wholly unnoticed by most of the world. Then again, judging from this situation, it truly doesn’t extend beyond the small cluster of islands they call home.</p><p>“Where’s the nearest port?” Graven asks, flipping out the compass in the pocket of his heavy duster. Avelyn furrows her brow, trying to recall the dotted lines spidering out across the large map in the galley and still keep her balance. Ornhallow would be the nearest large port should they need repairs, but far from safe. Since good old Saint Loqir had increased the authority of the Paladins the entire northern half of Aerulann was practically a no-fly and no-sail zone for their kind – and not just pirates. More than once Avelyn had heard the stories told outside the bounds of Paladin influence, of Pureblood light elves forced out of their small communities, the drow isolating themselves from outside contact amid worsening relations with humans. Something strange was brewing on the continent, and it made her all the more grateful she’d left the land behind.</p><p>So. Not Ornhallow. Avelyn frowns, resettling her weight with the rocking of the deck. There was only one more port within range on that map. Small, out of the way, more than likely a haven for outlaws – and untested. In her thirteen years as a pirate, she’s never had cause to go there, and she’s never bothered to investigate. It’s a risk. But better than meeting the executioner’s blade.</p><p>“Wolfwater!” She shouts after a moment. From the pinched brows she can tell the Captain hasn’t heard of it either, they travel this route so rarely. Only terrible luck made this detour necessary in the first place. ”Through the Sharuun Strait to the east, it should give us some cover.” She watches the Captain turn the idea over in his head, then nod.</p><p>“East then, get us out of this squall.”</p><p>The journey is not an easy one, fighting against the ever-rising winds and staying above the roiling seas. A small panic breaks loose among the crew when a rope snaps and tears loose the mainsail, but the Cicada’s bodies are able and experienced and secure it quickly. After a few hours the waves calm enough the Captain gives the order to shut down the drift engine, letting the bulk of the ship settle in the water a little less smoothly than Avelyn would like. The deck shudders under her feet as the engine comes to rest, cycling out the excess wind magic powering it and venting jets of scalding steam at either side. The Technicians who maintain the magical devices on the ship scurry about the lower deck, making sure the old engine model conducts the heat out properly and the runes remain intact. Flight is always somewhat risky, especially for long periods of time. Still, it carried them far enough. “Take a break, old girl,” Avelyn says, patting the carved railing fondly. Graven meets her at the mast, leaning against the rain sodden wood with an ease she’s learned is just naturally how he carries himself, uncaring of the light <em>plip plip</em> of water dripping on his coat from the greyed sail above. Graven Ford is not a quick-tempered man, despite what one might expect of a drow-goblin halfblood.</p><p>To port and starboard the towering sheer red rock faces of the twin continents Veushar and Yoshuun cast their shadows on the calming waters. Graven whistles, impressed.</p><p>“Not been here often,” he says, eyes skyward to the barest hints of plant life poking over the chasm. Avelyn grunts in agreement. She knows very little about this part of the world, and it does not fill her with the same spirit of adventure her captain seems to have discovered. Avelyn prefers the well-worn paths and evenings spent drinking rather than warily searching the dark for unknown threats.</p><p>“Such is a pirate’s life,” Graven adds, and for an odd second she’s not sure if she thought out loud or if he can simply read her well enough it hardly mattered. She can only offer a conceding shrug in response, companionable silence falling over them between the gentle slops of water nudging the hull.</p><p>Eventually from the crow’s nest – and isn’t Jaegan brave, staying up there all this time – comes a cry of ‘land to the fore!’ Avelyn looks to the bow, turning further to bring the narrow passage out of the blind spot in her useless left eye, where around the jagged angle of the mountainside the somewhat ramshackle signs of a small port come into view. Graven moves past her, weaving through the hurried activity of the crew to hoist himself up onto the rigging, one thick soled boot planted on a crate and all else suspended over the edge. She doesn’t need to see his face to know a smile has started spreading. The port is barely a port, populated only with a few small vessels and a single ship roughly the size of the Cicada – another pirate vessel by the looks. There are no naval standards. The gleaming banners of the Paladins catch no breeze here – nor any authority in general unless they fly no colours or coat of arms. Avelyn feels herself relax, mirroring the anticipatory grin on her captain’s face.</p><p>In short: perfect.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They leave the Cicada swaying in shallow blue waters; only Graven, Avelyn and a few of the crew go ashore. The rest left making repairs and tallying supplies. No sense alarming any skittish residents by marching an entirely unfamiliar crew into the town square, even in places used to that sort of thing. Graven walks ahead of the small pack, beaded braids swinging like a pendulum and chattering like teeth. People make way for him, but they do not seem overly concerned. Avelyn jerks her head roughly at one of them as she passes, an appropriately neutral greeting the skinny young man returns with only slight hesitation. Definitely used to pirates coming through here. The boardwalk planks are spongy underfoot, partially rotten and poorly maintained. Some of the houses, part-stone and part-wood, list dangerously to one side but are not in imminent danger of collapse.</p><p>In the grimy reflection of a shop window she catches sight of herself – shaggy strawberry blonde hair hanging limp with the water weight, thick braid uncomfortable against her back. The purple-grey tint to her skin across her forehead, the long points of her ears and the column of her neck, sprinkled with tiny stardust fragments glittering in the light; things that mark her easily as a Pure-blooded light elf. In the past she had hidden them in long bangs and high collars, but being part of a pirate crew had a way of making such things seem far less important than the cloistered world of her people. <em>Former</em> people.</p><p>She’s not sure how those features will be received here. Any more than the slate skin and ridged ears of her captain, but they have a far better shot at a fair welcome here than almost anywhere in Aerulann now.</p><p>Harlow splits off from the group once they reach the centre of the market, unfolding a piece of yellowed parchment from her breast pocket and heading in the direction of an elderly stall handler in front of a cart loaded with produce. He gestures invitingly as she approaches and tosses the long red tail of her hair over her shoulder in a way Avelyn has come to recognise as ‘haggling time’. Avelyn squints while trying to appear not to squint, inspecting the vegetables as best she can from this distance. It <em>seems</em> fine, discounting the faintly diseased look of the cart’s materials. Harlow’s generally pretty good with provisions…</p><p> “Where does a stormswept sailor get a good drink around here, Cousin?” Graven asks cheerfully, slapping the nearest person on the shoulder maybe a touch too hard. The man – middle aged, glasses, greying moustache – stares at Graven as though deciding whether to be intimidated or not but appears to shake it off.</p><p>“Uh, the inn, probably.” He says, not quite sounding sure. Graven looks around them at no less than three different inns circling the centre of the town. The Lonely Trapper, The Weary Poacher, The Hanged Huntsman… Avelyn feels her eyebrows lift. Not a fan of hunters in this town… Might have something to do with the wolf monument at its heart.</p><p>“We seem to have quite the choice,” Graven says, still cheerful. “Any particular recommendation?” The man frowns at him.</p><p>“Sorry, I don’t mean these inns, I mean <em>The Inn</em>,” he says more slowly, as if that makes it clearer, and points down. Avelyn looks at the floor, and then over the edge of the floor where a walkway runs beneath the main square, bordered with uninviting seawater. “The sign fell off years ago and the staff haven’t replaced it so no one remembers what it’s called. It’s just The Inn.” Avelyn looks back at the three inns <em>not</em> ferreted away literally underneath the town. The man seems to pick up on her reservations. “It’s not a bad place,” he tells her. “It’s <em>discreet</em>.” Ah.</p><p>It’s a pirate den. Or at the very least a place where the law-intolerant gather. Graven catches her eye, and she can already see his mind is made up. She doesn’t disagree. These places look dull anyway.</p><p>The path down to the walkways leads them through the town centre and back out the other side, to a small staircase rickety with age and frequent use, which winds riverlike as if it was built by several different people over the span of years. The air down here smells a little stale with all the damp wood around, but it’s perfectly bearable. The creaking is at times a little bit disconcerting, six sets of boots all thudding heavily enough that sometimes Avelyn swears she feels the walkway dip. It’s not a long walk, but it is out of the way, crammed into a relatively dark corner where there is indeed a black iron hook with no placard.</p><p>She can tell it’s lively though. The distinct sound of inebriated laughter comes out muffled through the thick wood, a gentle orange light through the crack under the door. As they approach the door swings violently open and a very merry pair of men stumble out, almost bumping into Graven, who steers them deftly aside with a chuckle and a ‘good evening’. A gust of pleasantly warm air follows them out, sinking into her chilled bones, the bite of several different alcoholic smells chasing after. Graven strides in like he’s a regular, Avelyn following close behind, looking around the small but surprisingly spacious inn.</p><p>A few moderately sized tables dot the floorspace here and there, neatly dressed in simple tan table cloths, lit by flickering lanterns just bright enough to see but dim enough to be cosy. A few more tables, slightly smaller, sit further back; sequestered away in the shadows for those who prefer their privacy. On the back wall an expansive dark wood bar is set, simple and functional but kept with obvious pride and care, several decently comfortable looking bar stools arranged in front. One of the crew eases the door shut behind them, blocking out the lingering chill and the other signs of life outside this friendly space – she can hear music now, just under the voices. Strings, like the late nights on calm water with only the men and women around you and the wooden tub you’d all entrusted your lives to. It’s strangely nostalgic, but presumably that’s the point.</p><p>The human behind the bar looks up from the tall glass he’s drying off when she and Graven approach and take up two of the stools. Avelyn is more or less content to ignore staff unless they give her trouble – or proposition her – but no sooner has she sat down and set her elbows on the smooth wood there’s a prickle of <em>awareness</em> at the base of her skull. She glances at Graven, thinking maybe he too has noticed it, and goes still. The Captain’s smiling as he always does, the easy smile of someone who gets by with guile on the daily, but his eyes are no longer heavy lidded and lazy. They’re <em>fixed</em>, pupils blown a little wide, she’s not even completely sure he’s breathing.</p><p>Avelyn has seen that before, in the moments before a heist, in the breath before a fight. It comes from his goblin heritage, that statuesque attention of a hunter, but it’s sharpened by something else. It’s <em>old</em>, branded into her captain decades ago, at the same time that mark was inked into his skin, a sharp-taloned hand red as blood clutching the left side of his face. The mark of an Assassin, or at least one belonging to the Collective. Avelyn keeps still, gaze slipping across to the other man – not a barkeep. Or not <em>only</em>. A pirate, with certainty, and not the dregs she’s used to encountering. She can understand at once why she didn’t see it, but now that she has, she can’t imagine <em>unseeing</em> it.</p><p>The man is tall, very tall, but not abnormally so. He’s broad and solid, but tempered by the softened edges and slightly rounded hallmarks of years in retirement. The sun washed tan of months under the open sky has been bleached out just enough. The neatly trimmed black beard lining his jaw is a tell-tale sign of someone who hasn’t had to chop away the excess with a knife in some time. A <em>domesticated</em> pirate.</p><p>Then again, although the black hair drawn into a short tail is flecked with grey, the sides are freshly shaved down to show the neat ink lines of tattoos creeping up the back of his neck and scalp. Blue eyes – astonishingly blue, like polished turquoise – retain the same sharpness she sees in Graven’s amber eyes. Watching and appraising. Taking in the features of her captain; eyes, ears, brand, braids. Retired, but not dulled. Even his smile is friendly and polite on the surface, but alert underneath.</p><p>And Graven…</p><p>Graven looks <em>enraptured</em>. Avelyn can’t tell if it’s something goblin again, or drow, or just <em>him</em> but it’s like watching two pack leaders size each other up. Carefully she taps the countertop, drawing his attention away and pulling her brows together in warning. Graven does not often forget himself, and never by choice, but something in his blood still carries a feral hint of his upbringing and makes itself known every now and then.</p><p>The man’s eyes flick between them, silently calculating their wordless exchange, but whatever tense moment hung between the two men has thinned out, and Graven smiles as though it never happened.</p><p>“Good evening,” he says jovially, shrugging off his coat and tossing it into the shadows over one of the tables. He does not check whether it’s occupied, but if it is whoever’s there will have the sense to have vanished by the time he turns around.</p><p>“Six of your cheapest,” Avelyn cuts in before Graven can blow their budget and drive Harlow into despair. The barkeep’s eyebrows lift a fraction but he inclines his head, busying himself with the order.</p><p>“Just come in?” He asks – deep, gruff, not unfriendly but entirely superficial; Avelyn suspects he’s slow to warm to people. Wise, in their line of work.</p><p>“Caught the tail end of the storm out west,” she answers as casually as she can. He does not need to know how they came to be in the storm. Graven takes up the first tankard set on the counter and retreats to the unlit table, dropping heavily into a seat and propping one foot on another. Face turned into the heaviest shadows to hide the brand on his face. She can’t tell where his focus is, but he looks preoccupied.</p><p>“Rough luck,” the barkeep rumbles dutifully, setting the rest of the drinks out. Avelyn tips one in thanks and slides payment across in turn. Jaegan takes the half she can’t and together they make it to one of the more brightly lit tables with the others, stripping off damp outer layers and making themselves at last somewhat comfortable.</p><p>It does not take long for the crew of the Cicada to warm to a place.</p><p>Within two rounds they’re laughing loudly amongst themselves. Within another three once Harlow has joined them Jaegan has begun improvising shanty lyrics to match the music and drawn in another two groups of strangers, the sound of scraping briefly drowning out all other noise while they drag the tables together. The serving staff – mostly young women Avelyn imagines to have been rescued from harder times from the sheer gratitude in their serving style – laugh along with them for a while when they bring new drinks. Within hours the coin is flowing more freely than Avelyn intended, but she can’t quite manage to be regretful. Good company and a safehouse are commodities worth paying for.</p><p>The Captain stays in his shadowed corner, but joins in with them nonetheless. While the five of them plus their new friends sing and shout, she occasionally hears wisps of a baritone hum in chorus with them from across the room.</p><p>When she raises her hand again for another round the barkeeper – still distantly friendly but perhaps not so wary now - gestures at someone and then towards them. Avelyn turns and has to blink. A young elven girl, 28 at most she would guess, makes her way over to them; all fluffy blonde curls and pink lips over a faint tan. Another set of striking turquoise eyes – daughter? Surely not… the barely-present point of the barkeep’s ears suggests <em>some</em> distant elvish blood, but far too little to have such strong elvish traits in any child – unless the mother was a Pureblood? She’s certainly made up enough to be something of a darling in this place, the only person in the whole inn wearing a dress; a pretty shade of autumnal yellow, bright as a rose bloom in the dim light. Her lips are curled in a smile, bright eyes wide and tellingly starry – Avelyn knows this girl’s type. The ones who grow up on pirate stories, daydreaming about romanticised adventures. It’s charming in a way, the unabashed interest on her young face.</p><p>One of the more drunk patrons reaches out towards the girl as though to snatch her into his lap, but she twists elegantly out of his way, the image of the princess briefly broken as an irritated frown creases her brow. Avelyn finds herself laughing, and then kicks the offending patron in the shin.</p><p>“What can I get you?” The little lady asks, too excited to fully hide it. Avelyn holds up her empty tankard.</p><p>“More of the same if you would, Luv.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>come on</em>, Ave,” Harlow groans, slurring around a fumbling tongue. “You’ve spent so much we might as well fork out for something a bit less washed out.” Avelyn’s certain she sees both the girl and the barkeep bristle slightly at the phrase ‘washed out’, but it’s Harlow. There’s really no mitigating a first impression of Harlow. Avelyn shrugs at the waiting light elf.</p><p>“Alright, whatever’s slightly more alcoholic than this one then, I suppose,” she amends. “Cheers.” The girl notes something down on a small piece of parchment and then makes no secret at all of handing the order to a passing waitress. The girl’s practically bouncing, leaning over their table like something incredibly secret is happening. Avelyn pats the spot on the table next to where she’s sitting but the girl doesn’t take the offer – though she does continue to hover meaningfully.</p><p>“I’m Elise,” she says after a beat, unprompted. Avelyn snorts, but offers a hand, which the girl eagerly takes.</p><p>“Avelyn. Nice to meet you, Elise.”</p><p>“Avelyn.” She sounds like she’s testing out the taste of it. “Your piercings look really nice, did they hurt?”</p><p>“These?” Avelyn touches one of the many gold loops and studs adorning her ears. She can’t remember if they hurt, it was so long ago. She supposes they must have, given how sensitive elven ears are. It doesn’t make for an exciting answer for a curious elven lass though. “Not as much as the ones down here,” she murmurs in something like a stage whisper, gesturing vaguely to the vicinity south of her hips. The girl’s eyes go even wider, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’.</p><p>“You have-… <em>there</em>?” She’s expecting disgust, but the girl surprises her; a full-blown grin blossoming on her face. “That’s <em>so cool</em>. I wanted piercings for <em>ages</em> but Dad wouldn’t let me.” Avelyn’s sure she’s an adult by elven standards, but at that moment she looks like a pouty child. So, she is his daughter. Interesting.</p><p>“Would he not?” She asks, unable to stop herself smiling at the girl’s enthusiasm.</p><p>“No!” Adorable. “But yours look really pretty. We don’t see many female pirate captains, is your ship a big one?”</p><p>“Ah,” Avelyn interrupts, holding up a hand. “Sadly, you’ve not seen one today either. I’m not the captain – but yes, it’s a decent sized ship.”</p><p>“You’re not?” Elise asks, seeming almost disappointed. Avelyn steers her around by the shoulder and points to Graven’s shaded corner.</p><p>“Nope, see that drow over there? <em>He’s</em> the captain, I’m just the first mate.” Elise seems to perk up again at that, spinning back around to face her.</p><p>“First mate? Like, the second in command? That’s still neat, you must be st-“</p><p>“Elise.” Avelyn and the girl turn in unison to where the barkeep has his arms folded – very parent-like now she has that new information – over his chest, a patient but faintly chastising tilt to his expression. Elise deflates a little bit, fiddling with the detailing on her dress.</p><p>“Sorry Dad,” she says, but without any ill feeling behind it as she hurries off to catch up with the orders. Avelyn watches after her, approving despite herself. Whatever their family situation he’s clearly raised her well. She watches the two of them share a few quiet words over the bar, two sets of bright blue eyes darting over to where Graven sits and back. Avelyn taps the rim of her tankard and shakes her head – she’s never quite sure why people think she’s the captain instead of Graven – maybe just because she’s louder? Amber eyes catch hers across the room, Graven noticing the fresh attention on him. She shakes her head again – no trouble.</p><p>She hates to admit it so soon after arriving, never one to attach to a spot easily, but she kinda likes it here.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It’s not even two rounds later when something <em>off</em> raises the hairs on the back of her neck. The volume in the inn is still the same, despite the late hour, no one else seeming to notice any change in the air. Avelyn looks across the room to her captain just as the door swings open with unnecessary force.</p><p>Five men dressed in black coats file into the inn, each one very obviously wearing a sword on their hip. Too swaggering to be civilians, too rough to be organised authority. Avelyn’s eyes narrow. Pirates. Rude ones. Probably with small dicks, so they feel the need to wave big swords around instead. Avelyn’s never understood that – but then again, she thinks for one smug moment, she has a very big dick.</p><p>The room has gone quiet, the barkeep paused in the middle of wiping down the counter. Even from here Avelyn can see that same intensity as when they first arrived. These newcomers are not that observant, judging by the way the apparent ringleader throws his arms comically wide. A fairly big human male, brown hair chopped short and messy.</p><p>“Go back to your drinks, friends, no need to pay us any mind.” Avelyn wants to say it’s a bit late for that when they’ve so effectively murdered the atmosphere, but she keeps her silence. From the corner of her eye, she can see Elise pressed back against the wall almost out of sight. Big blue eyes catch hers and she offers a wink, tipping her head quickly toward the open service door near the bar and hoping the girl gets the hint to make herself scarce.</p><p>“Can I help you, gentlemen?” The barkeep asks. His voice is tight, forced neutral. The group’s leader and what she assumes to be the first mate, if they are in fact pirates, step forward with smiles plastered across their faces – aiming for charming and landing somewhere in sleazy.</p><p>“As a matter of fact, my good man, you can.” Avelyn looks down to hide the twist of her lips, the theatrics are nauseating in their insincerity. “My crew and I just came into port after the storm, you see.” What a coincidence. “We took some damage and, in truth, we’re in need of a pick-me-up.”</p><p>“Well,” the barkeep begins, gesturing to the bottles arranged neatly on the shelves. “We’re well stocked, as you can see. What can I get you?” The pirate captain puffs out a condescending burst of laughter, hand resting tactlessly on the hilt of his sword, so far up himself he clearly hasn’t caught on that this particular barkeep is far from cowed, whatever success this routine might have earned them before. Avelyn looks again to the darkened corner where the drow sits unmoving, eyes wide and pupils so dilated they look almost entirely black. Around her she can feel the tension wiring the rest of the Cicada’s crew. Where the other patrons lean away from the intruders, her crewmates lean fractionally forward into coiled alertness.</p><p>“All of it,” the captain says with a sweeping gesture. “But we’re sadly unable to pay, all our funds must go toward repairs. You understand.”</p><p>“I do,” the barkeep says amiably, throwing the cloth up to rest over his shoulder. “Repairs don’t come cheap when you’re on an uncommonly bad streak of luck.” The white flash of a toothy grin tells Avelyn Graven caught the implication in that comment and was appropriately tickled by it. “But I’m running a business here, friend, not a charity. We don’t give stock away for free.”</p><p>The captain gives that grating choke of laughter again, stepping further forward, shadowed by the second man. One of the girls nearest to them scrambles back out of the way.</p><p>“No need to be like that,” the captain tells her, but Avelyn does not miss the roving of his gaze. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”</p><p>“No,” the barkeep says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t think we can. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, you’re disturbing my other customers.”</p><p>The scrape of steel is deafening in the tense silence. The sword in the intruder’s hand is poorly made, but it’ll cut as well as it needs to should it come to that. Avelyn feels Jaegan tense further at her side, but they do not move. The two men approach the bar, an exact sword length away from the barkeep. To his credit, the barkeep – and apparently owner of the inn – remains unmoved. Avelyn’s familiar with that stillness. It’s the taut restraint of someone trying not to swat a particularly annoying fly.</p><p>“I’ve tried to be nice,” the captain says in a voice that tries for menacing. “But seeing as you won’t be reasonable-“ The first mate drops while the captain is still talking, a gloved hand holding a silver knife flashing out of the shadows, and in the same moment the crew of the Cicada springs into action.</p><p>Avelyn lashes out and grabs the man closest to her, wedging her hand under his jaw and wrenching until she feels a familiar ‘<em>pop</em>’. Harlow is less graceful, tearing in with a resounding snap. Jaegan is surgical, one terribly sharp knife slipped up through the ribs, deep brown eyes almost lazy with the ease of the execution. He blows a stray strand of brown hair casually aside as he does it. Four bodies hit the floor as one, and only then does the lonely captain start to turn.</p><p>Graven’s knife slides home with so little resistance it doesn’t look real, a quick and clean cut so precise it barely makes a sound. Graven catches the corpse as it falls, bringing it to rest carefully on the floor. Avelyn feels the room collectively let out a breath. It is over in seconds.</p><p>“Amateurs,” Harlow spits, nudging one of the bodies with a foot. Avelyn sends her a quieting glance, signalling the rest of the crew to begin removing the bodies.</p><p>Graven looks down at the captain for a moment, expression carefully blank. Then in a flicker it’s gone, a wide grin in its place.</p><p>“Sincere apologies, Keeper,” he says, quiet but chipper, doffing an imaginary cap as he twists on the spot to face the bar. The barkeep - <em>innkeeper</em>, she supposes – remains still, looking Graven up and down like he expects to catch him in a lie. But there’s something there under it, something not present before this moment. Approval, perhaps. “It’s rude to make a mess on a first meeting, I know. We’ll clean this up, don’t trouble yourself.” ‘We’ meaning ‘everyone except Graven’, Avelyn notes dryly, watching her captain drop onto one of the barstools as the unmistakeable scuff of corpses being dragged starts behind her.</p><p>“Just dump them in the water,” she tells Jaegan when he drags the first mate past her. “With any luck the fish’ll eat them.”</p><p>Then again, he did tally up two for her one, so she supposes it’s earned.</p><p>“I didn’t introduce myself earlier,” Graven says, offering a mysteriously bladeless hand across the counter. “Graven Ford, captain of the Cicada.”</p><p>“Owain,” the human answers in kind, taking the offered hand in a firm shake. Notably declining to give a last name, gesturing around himself. “Innkeeper.” Graven’s grin widens, eyes glittering with the look of a man who’s found a new interesting friend.</p><p>“A pleasure, you run a nice place.” Owain sets a fresh tankard down on the counter, seemingly from nowhere, and Graven pauses to fumble with some surprise for a coin. Owain waves him off.</p><p>“On the house,” he says with that same gruff tone. But his eyes still widen an almost imperceptible amount when Graven tips back and drains the whole thing, setting it down with a satisfyingly hollow ‘<em>clunk</em>’.</p><p>“Cheers. So,” Graven picks up where he left off, sliding the coin across the counter. “I don’t suppose you have any good leads on where a pirate might ply his trade around here.” Owain picks the coin up off the counter and starts swapping out the drink for another with the routine of everyday business, but Avelyn is sure she can see the faint twitch of a smile on his lips.</p><p>She leaves them to it – intel gathering was never her favourite pastime. That, and she’s caught a glimpse of blonde hair. Elise pokes her head around the door, checking whether the coast is clear now the noise in the room has returned to a more typical type of muffled merrymaking. She looks relieved, casting a subdued glance now and again towards her father where he appears to be deep in conversation with Graven.</p><p>Avelyn waves her over, once again patting the space next to her on the table.</p><p>Elise visibly debates, glancing back to the bar again, but then curiosity overtakes her and she scurries over. Avelyn slings an arm around the girl’s shoulder as once more the dreadful sound of a half-dozen drunk, singing pirates drowns out a distant series of splashes.</p><p> </p>
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